


The Space Between Stars

by shadowlands



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Super Sons (Comics)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Teen Titans - Freeform, lose all your happiness in two hours with this cutting-edge product
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-10-24 14:39:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10743756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowlands/pseuds/shadowlands
Summary: Jon waves, grinning ear to ear. In that split second Damian knows he’s made the right decision. This is just another secret he’ll take to his grave.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Super Sons is a precious, pure thing and I can’t resist writing for JonDami ft. the Batfam. Or my hellish id-fic version of it at least. Apologies for the self indulgence. And the lack of concrete tags because they are of spoilery nature. Separate warnings will be included in specific chapters.
> 
> I don’t know if I got this in character considering I haven’t written for DC in a very long time but I tried my best.
> 
> Enjoy. 
> 
> [P.S. Damian is 17 going on 18. Jon is 16.] 
> 
> Kudos and comments welcome.

Grayson is looking at him with bewildered eyes. “You’re making apple crumble for Jon?” At the silence of said suspect who merely took the freshly made confectionery out of the oven, the capeless vigilante took it as an affirmative. A very enthusiastic one. “Dami, that’s so sweet of you! Hey, how come you never make me baked goods when I’m on recovery?” And trust Grayson to get distracted in a fraction of a second. “Oh, that smells good, can I have a taste?”

Damian dodges his attempts at stealing a perfectly cut slice as he packed the hot crust into a suitable plastic container, instead tossing him the mittens he’d been wearing. “Grayson, stop salivating and grab the other tray.”

“You made extra for me?” Grayson’s blue eyes couldn’t have been rounder. He wore flattery the way he wore an honorary police badge.

Damian rolled his eyes. “Pennyworth insisted I make several batches. In case of failure, which is prudent though belittling of him.”

“Nah, that’s not it, Dami.” The man grinned, tousling his hair before he could prevent it. “You’re just guilty you have to cancel on patrolling with me tonight. You didn’t have to apologize or make it up to me, but I definitely wouldn’t say no to such a nice surprise.”

After more than five years of dealing with Grayson and his penchant for unconditional affection, Damian is somewhat used to being outed in his own occasional bumbling attempts of compassion. Still he never quite gave up the pretense of being above it all. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Grayson.” He cleaned up after his own mess fairly efficiently, ignoring Dick’s presence by the island as he practically inhaled the streusel, liberally giving out compliments when his mouth hadn’t been stuffed in a poor imitation of a hamster. “I have to go. Be careful tonight.”

“Always am.”

When Damian receives one of those cheeky, self-assured Dick Grayson smiles it makes him feel anything but easy. Because last week was still a fresh imprint on his mind. His team, and silently he begrudgingly admit, his friends, abducted and shackled in their own personal brand of hell. As much as Damian could appreciate the next technological advancement, inhibitor collars were hideous, especially when they were hurting those he didn’t want hurt. He and Grayson had been the only ones insusceptible, even then they had cut it close with the rescue mission. By the end of it Grayson had been bleeding on the ground, a testament to his luck that the bullet only penetrated non vitals and took three days to wake up.

“Maybe I should go with you. Raven said Jon might not even wake up yet even if he’s well enough to move out of the med bay. I’ll visit tomorrow.”

As nonchalant as he tried to put it, Dick didn’t miss where his innermost thoughts lie. This time Damian didn’t quite resist the arm that looped across his shoulder. “Nonsense. Look, Alfie’s cleared me on popping my stitches so there’s no need to worry. I have Steph as backup. And you’ve got that midterm on Friday. You could just study in the tower if he’s not up. And more importantly Jon should be with someone when he wakes up. Since Clark is off world, who better to replace him than his boyfriend–”

Damian spluttered, “I’m not his boyfriend!”

Grayson has the gall to pretend he didn’t slip up, complete with upturned eyebrows and the innocent gasp. “Did I say that? I meant bestfriend. And Kori did mention he was dealing with a rough case of homesickness. You can take the boy out of Kansas but you can’t take the Kansas out of the boy. Bringing southern comfort food to his bedside is not only super thoughtful but really good timing on your part, Dami.”

What Dick was insinuating sent a pang of guilt through Damian. Because Damian had never been thoughtful. In fact this was the first time he would be directly addressing and attempting to assist Jon in said matter. Why? Well Damian was never one to cross his boundaries, not like this. And he never saw the need, not when it had driven him outside of his own comfort zone. Despite the strange indelible ways Jon had endeared himself to him and ignoring the sickness which has infected Damian to return his affection, his own albeit unspoken, he was too busy making sure they were effective as battle partners. Once again Damian was too busy emulating his father, because at whatever means possible the mask came first.

Not to mention he never had problems with relocating, though he knew it came from the fact that he’d traveled and globe jumped since birth. He was aware of Jon’s adjustment progress, or the lack of it which became apparent after his excitement to being inducted in the Titans waned, no matter how much he pretended he didn’t. School was tough on him and San Francisco was a stifling bustle of loud noises he’s yet to grow accustomed to.

He was not a fully matured Kryptonian therefore even if he had grown into his powers somewhat, non factors like these still threw him out of sorts. Living in Smallville was safe, all sunshine and domestic routines that came out of a scene from a children’s book. And he had his mother to miss. Lois, as out of her element as she is in the superhero circle, was the furthest thing from a coward. Damian could respect that. And more importantly she was present in all the ways she should be. He could see it in the way Jon implicitly trusted her, cherished her.

Damian could hardly say he missed Talia in times of logic for all the woman’s done, but in bouts of wakefulness, nostalgia had a way of appealing to sentimentality. Damian remembers her presence in parts. The scent of her perfume, long fingers sweeping through his hair, the sound of a lullaby. Damian remembers her absence in blood soaked dreams and voices, the piercing stillness of a serrated blade, the viridian heat of a lazarus pit. _I forgive you. But my mother you are no longer._

Damian finishes wiping down the stains on the tabletop and tosses aside the dish rag before heading for the zeta tubes by the basement.

“Does this mean you’re sleeping over?” Came the echo of Dick’s voice from the elevators. He took the non answer as a confirmation. “Then don’t forget the condoms!”

“Grayson!” Damian’s indignant bark came in a burst of light as he vanished.


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where are my priorities? I'm racking up word count on this when I should be working on the last quarter of my novel. Sighs. When it comes to writer's block I guess beggars can't be choosers.
> 
> I have to admit the event referencing and character usage in this fic is a combination of DC mixed media i.e. Rebirth + New 52 + DCAU and so on. If there's any discrepancies, that's probably why. This story will have an actual plot, though it's something of a slow burn.
> 
> Kudos and comments appreciated.
> 
> *** Chapter warnings are at end of chapter notes. ***

Kryptonite poisoning.

Damian understood the physiology, the necessity of such invasive combat methods. He knew how Father kept a limited supply on hand for contingencies. He still hated that such sensitive information was out in the open, that their enemies knew all they needed to do to anyone with the S shield was hover glowing green isotope their way for them to crumple to their knees. Jon had weathered that, for the first time, which was a miracle considering they’ve been at this for a few years, but it didn’t make Damian resent the situation any less. Jon didn’t seem to be affected by it though, if only a little worse for wear, for the boy had resumed normalcy, lounging on his cot by his room as Damian knocked, in the middle of a comic book. He expected a smile, if nothing else, but all Jon did was acknowledge him with the briefest of stares before ignoring him.

Raven had warned him Jon had woken up more testy than usual, especially when he was told he was going to be off duty until he was cleared by the next scan for any trace of radiation which would only take place should Kori be able to fix the sun lamps he’d broken when he roused from a nightmare after being put down under for the procedure. Considering Kori’s mother henning tendencies, she was going to take her sweet time.

Damian could understand the frustration of injury, the restlessness of being unable to don the costume and earn the night. Which was why he settled for a gentle greeting as the door locked behind him. “Hello.”

“What do you want?” The mannerless grunt has him taken aback that Damian remains silent. Jon’s eyes are sharp, as if he were looking at something repulsive. “If it’s to lecture me for disobeying orders and flying into the fray, then no need. Your glory hog of a brother’s done that already when you were at school.”

Damian gingerly agrees to the debrief’s unmerited nature after short consideration. Bad for morale, Grayson’s tip comes to him. “Another time maybe then. For what it’s worth, I’ve done the same in the past. And I admit, I did bait you into charging head on with my remarks. If it’s any consolation, part of your recklessness was fueled by my actions. I brought a peace offering.”

“You? A peace offering?” Jon snorted in disbelief, rising from the bed and making his way towards him. With the lack of interest Damian only lightly set the package on the desk. “Isn’t the perfect son of the bat too good for me?”

When the comic book hits the floor, edges ripping apart, is when the hairs on Damian’s neck stand up. Somehow Damian knew they were no longer talking about pie. He recalls the night they went out in New York for Jon’s sixteenth, the fake IDs, getting plastered over cheap tequila, the drunken kiss. How Jon had the alcohol tolerance of an elephant, how Damian had pretended he wasn’t the same and conveniently demonstrated a convincing performance of amnesia out of cold feet for commitment when he had so many others. (Titans. Bats. Clinging over his grandfather’s lost legacy. Reminding himself that he belongs out of a coffin.) Over and over again Grayson had told him he’s a horrible actor. Now he was beginning to believe it.

“You can’t even deny it can you?” Jon pressed on. “Yet here you are, doing the same as always, leading me on for your own twisted mind games. Because that’s what you do, make people question their worth. What am I worth to you, Damian? A pawn? The final piece to complete your chess set?”

“You’re my friend.” Damian means it. “You are my closest companion.”

“Close, huh?” John laughs. It’s a dark mockery of summer days on a meadow full of golden wheat stalks and honey eyed stallions. “Then I can’t begin to imagine how you treat people who are just people to you. You know you’re talented in literally every useless, obscure field, but when it comes to being human, you suck. Some leader you’ll make. Aren’t corpses supposed to stay buried?”

Damian feels something prickle and snake between the ridges of his chest, the way vines would climb upon gardens. Because Jon knew, his deepest fears, long drawn secrets spoken in the middle of the night. That he’s afraid he may not have come back right. The same as Todd’s words, though not quite. Because maybe if Damian was willing to put his pride aside for a moment, there was no gravity to his fear, for what did it matter if he was never right to begin with? He had run a sword through a man’s chest when he’d been short of the age three only because his mother _asked_. His mother who returned the favor ten years later.

Then the hurt stops and comes fear when Jon strides across the length of the room by an inhuman speed, to capture his wrists in a vice grip as Damian’s head as well as his entire body met the sound proofed wall in a slam. “Jon, release me. Something’s wrong with you. I need to get you back to the med bay.”

“More trite commands. More don’t defy me. More I do what I want without having to explain myself to you. Just as I expected.” The low whisper against his ear is a cold breath of air and Damian hisses when he feels the sting of frostbite. “Fight, Damian. You can’t, can you?”

Damian knows the tell-tale of laser vision by heart and he dodges the streak of red by an inch given his range of motion, a whiplash as his reward. He kicks, knees Jon in the groin, and it’s like a steel pipe had just connected with his kneecap. “Fuck.”

“Fuck is right.” Jon eyes Damian with barely concealed lust and this is when he knows he has to make a break for it no matter what. Reality isn’t as kind because he found himself pinned with excruciating pressure, enough to fracture. The hybrid’s taller stature has Damian on his tiptoes, dangling from where he’s held. One elbow strikes the base of his sternum, keeping him there, shoulders caged by Jon’s broader form. The kiss that assaults his mouth is bruising, nothing like the chaste turned sloppy seconds in the smokey lights of Brooklyn underground. “You did this to me. Although you’re too much of a coward to take the reins and move forward. Let me show you how.”

 _Nonono._ Damian writhes, tries to fight the way pleasure coils through his stomach as a calloused hand grips him, releasing him from the confines of his jeans, drawing his pleasure in intent strokes. _Not like this. Not like this._

Yet his body is conditioned to react as it should to such a touch. This close Jon’s freckles are as minute and numerous as starmaps, blue eyes as clear as the carribean and Damian tried, truly tried with every fiber of his being to transport his mind somewhere else, someplace else as he found his body manipulated like a marionette on broken strings. That Jon was doing this because he wanted him to. Not out of some spiteful rage born of malice or the greed to dominate. Selfishly Damian imagined this was happening because he had orchestrated it by some convoluted plot, much like everything else in their exchange.   

“You know how you make me feel, Damian?” Jon strips him down to his knees. “Exposed. Used.”

His breathing is ragged, with arousal, panic, both. “Jon, stop. Please stop.”

Jon throws him to the floor with a backhand that makes his jaw throb, before spreading his legs as wide as they’d go, and nothing is quite as grounding compared to the searing pain of being entered by him. Damian’s hope of escaping this even vicariously fades into mist. The unnatural breach tears through more than skin deep. Jon was Kryptonian in all senses, his size, his strength, even in this. Damian found himself motionless as the younger boy manhandled him, stretching him before he bottomed out and started pistoning. The pace was merciless, his insides scraped raw by the thick length moving within him. There’s blood, a small trickle by his leg, congealing alongside other fluids. Jon rolled their hips together and Damian swallows the curse threatening to spill from his lips because those blue eyes could turn red at any moment and incinerate him. _Wait. Wait. You can do this. Just let him finish._

Then Damian finds himself unable to hold back moans when Jon pushed him further into the carpet, thrusting deeper, hitting a particular spot and repeating himself with a self satisfied smirk. His hand is hot as it takes his member and coaxes it to respond and Damian finds himself unable to resist. The feeling of skin against him, inside him brings him to hardness and he chokes out a cry, arching onto his back as he releases his own spend into the Kryptonian’s open palm. “See? That wasn’t so bad now was it?” Meanwhile he continued to push, in and out, breath heavy and eyes heady. “I want you to remember this, Damian.” Jon pulled out, before plunging his entire length back in. And again and again. “Because above all else this is how you make me feel.” Again. “Completely..” Again. “And utterly..” Again. “Powerless.”

He feels Jon come inside of him, drawing out his relief in his passage. Finally with the loosened bonds Damian’s able to unhook the boy’s achilles heel from the back of his utility belt, fashioned into a ring. The stone is small, but this close the mineral is potent especially given his recent exposure to it. This seems to sap him of all his previous energy and Damian holds his breath when Jon slumps into a dead faint above him. He rolls out from under the spent teen, getting his own broken pants under control. In a matter of seconds he steels himself into a numb trance and the plan comes to him, infallible and practical as ever.

Damian cleans up after them, using the en suite’s bathroom, washing both of them of all traces of what happened on their persons, dressing quickly. He looks like a mess, but it’s fine, Damian makes a few strategic tears in the casual ensemble Jon’s wearing that it’ll give off the illusion of a fair fight. The wall’s still dented from where his outline’s smashed in, not to mention the trail of scorch marks. Damian throws half of the throwing stars he has in his boot compartment in the opposite direction. There’s nothing he can do about the blood on the carpet, but semen comes off easily enough with a good amount of paper towels. He deposits Jon on the bed, arranging him the way he slept, reminiscent of a starfish and the sight of him is what makes his heart shrivel inside his chest. Damian takes out the portable scanner from the pockets of his windbreaker jacket alongside a needle from the attached kit, quickly zipping himself. He pricks Jon’s finger, pressing it and in turn the droplet of blood onto the small interface. Red kryptonite, not much but significant enough to show visible residue in his bloodwork. Damian sighs, tucking Jon in under the blankets. Jon hadn’t mean to hurt him.

Damian remembers being held at gunpoint by his own father when he had been under the influence of mind control. On top of trying to console him for Talia’s betrayal, he remembers the sorrow and guilt that ate at him regarding his own part in raising a weapon towards and nearly shooting his son, how Father had treated him like priceless china about a month in after the incident. It was unbearable.

He could not imagine how this revelation would hit Jon. Jon. Happy, kind, innocent Jon. His best friend Jon. Damian’s eyes linger on him, his throat painfully constricting. Jon deserves better. John will have better. Jon will not have the memory of committing this atrocity in his altered state of consciousness. Did Jon ever wanted him? He may not have even wanted him like this. Jon would be disgusted with him, at what they had done. For all Damian knew the red kryptonite only told him to assume power in however way he could. Damian was vaguely familiar with Father’s retellings of Superman’s own infection. And just now Damian didn’t stop him, not really, because if he had, he would have reached into his comms and called for help. His own fear, his own inaction had let this come into completion. He had let himself be defiled. And deep down Damian knew Jon didn’t take anything he didn’t want to give. 

It’s settled. Damian finally inserts the comm links device into his earbud, activating it. “Raven. I need your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Rape/Non-con


	3. 3

Raven looks at the war zone of a room, looks at Damian, and frowns. “Damian, are you sure?”

Damian repeated the strange plea. “Probe him, wipe the last hour, and don’t ask any questions.”

“Damian, you wouldn’t be asking me this if it was some regular fist fight. You guys do that all the time. Why don’t stick to your usual? Give him some leg room then apologize. I’m sure Jon’s used to your trash talk. He’ll forgive you.”

“Raven, I can’t give you an explanation. Not now. I’ll tell you, just not right now.” If it weren’t for the curt tone, Raven would dare say the proud Robin was begging. Which was one of the things she didn’t think were possible if they weren’t in apocalyptic times. “And when you see what you see, don’t come to immediate conclusions.”

“What happened?” Raven reaches out to grab his shoulder and Damian fights the urge to flinch. Raven spots the knee-jerk reaction anyway, frown turning deeper from worry.

“Raven. You’re the only one I can trust.” Damian asks, nothing but subdued control, unmasked face unreadable. “Can I trust you?”

Raven nods reluctantly. “Yeah.”

She raised her hands, bible black glow enveloping the quarters, most concentrated on the boy on the bed and a full minute goes by surrounded in pitch darkness. When it’s done and the lights come back, Damian doesn’t feel any better.

 

* * *

 

When Damian’s sure he’s no longer limping, he sneaks into the mainframe office and erases the security feeds himself. There’s none on what happened in Jon’s bedroom, they all have privacy in their apartments, but the tapes contained Raven and Damian’s awkward proceeding outside by the halls, not to mention the stiff hug Raven of all people instigated is bound to raise questions. He turns down the offer to stay the night and opts traveling back to Gotham via zeta beam. He doesn’t go back to Wayne manor, not when they don’t expect him back until the next afternoon.

Damian recalls vomiting in a nearby shrub somewhere in Crime Alley before entering a seedy pub in his lapse of judgment instead of hailing a cab for a decent hotel, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Eyes are on him, not because he looks underage, Damian’s posture and recently acquired height from his last growth spurt has done him favors such as these for the past year, but because he looks too well groomed to wander into this part of town. He feigns ignorance, easy when the taste of bile is foul on his tongue and all he wants to do is upend the glass of vodka he opens his tab with.

The barkeep, a tattooed man in his early thirties with a Bronx accent, appraised him with a measured glare, knowing he’s there to get drunk senseless. “First four rounds are on the house. Just don’t bother me or any of my staff with conversation. It’s a busy night.”

Damian raises an eyebrow. “I do not plan to.”

The man scoffs. “That’s what they all say until an hour later they’re pints into their beer crying daddy never loved them enough. I know the type when I see one.” His nose wrinkles in distaste at Damian’s overpriced clothes. “You look like a sad son of a bitch to me. Keep your baggage to yourself and I’ll keep the drinks coming.”

The seventeen year-old is too exhausted to warn him of his insolence, instead agreeing to the terms. “Noted.”

Good as his word, Damian spoke to no one. He paces himself throughout the continuous flow of drinks, from clear to dark amber to emerald and back again, and then he doesn’t. He drank, drank without stopping, drank until he couldn’t think or feel. The scotch sloshed about in the clear glass, the room going in and out of focus as he half face planted onto the dirty wood counter.

“You want to get out of here and have some fun?” The hand that slides across his thigh is that of a stranger’s, one of the patrons seated on the row opposing his stool who had inched closer and closer as the night progressed.

But before Damian could break his wrist for the audacity, someone already did. “Hands off, loser.”

The man shrieks, grumbling protests before stalking off in fumes. “Fucking tease.”

“Hey, you need me to call someone for you? You’re in a bad shape to be here alone.” The kid, rich looking in subtle though unmistakably designer getup, slumped over next to a display of a near dozen empty alcoholic beverages, is the very picture of helpless target. He hadn’t even fend for himself apart from the soft groan that emanated from his lips. Damian only blinked owlishly when his rescuer peeks under his headful of dark strands, revealing their respective identities. He had thought that voice was familiar even with his somewhat impaired hearing. “Squirt? The hell are you doing getting wasted here?”

“Todd.” Damian slurs, eyes half lidded in recognition. “Indulging my undiscovered limits of inebriation I suppose. The establishment’s rather economic. I suppose I should thank you for saving me from unwanted advances.”

When there’s no bite to his words Jason gives him an incredulous look, sighs and pays for him before gathering him off the bar and slinging his arm over his back, green stare concerned. “You should thank me for ditching my date to help your sorry ass get sober before first period, twerp.”

“Tch. So what?” Damian hiccups. “Reschedule. I’m sure Harper will understand, hero worship you even.”

“How did you even know–”

“It appears Drake is the only member of our little cult who escaped the affliction of finding redheads irresistible.”

“You with Colin, kid?”

“Shows what you know. That unrequited ship has long past. Feline friends on the other hand will never reject our companionship.”

Jason’s shoulders shook with laughter as Damian tried to pull out of his grasp to pet a stray cat. He didn’t succeed of course and Jason ends up with a pouting teenager thrown across his shoulder like a burlap sack. “You are a piece of work, kid.”

Of course the position is half a bad idea, because Jason immediately puts the current Robin to level with him when the sick noises began. Jason grips him by the shoulder as the boy staggered to the side, propping himself to lean by the bricks, regurgitating the contents of his stomach behind a nearby dumpster. Jason would thought the sound of his littlest, pettiest brother in arms vomiting his guts be music to his ears, the sight of him knocked down a peg a nice silver lining on a rainy day, but he thought wrong. The al Ghul turned Wayne was a paragon of rationality, even if he had gone on a bender, it had to be an informed decision. Jason found himself questioning why, what could have driven him to act out of impulse, upset on the teen’s behalf.

When Damian was done dry heaving, he gained a semblance of clarity, enough to rightly accuse him. “Don’t look at me like that. I don’t need your pity.”

“Not giving you any grief, I swear. I make plenty of worse decisions.” Jason throws his hands up, a weak crooked smile. “But I might give you a place to crash if you want to.”

Damian thinks. Not only Todd didn’t judge, but he minded his own business. He sighs, hoping he won't regret it. “Lead the way.”

 

* * *

 

The next time Damian wakes up, it’s almost noon. He's still somewhat nauseous after washing up and brushing his teeth with the spare toiletries at hand but he supposes a hangover is fitting punishment for his crime of being stupid and seventeen. Outside Jason is on the phone. Damian could only guess with who before allowing himself a small grin at Todd’s mimicry of Grayson’s voice.

“Principal Atwood, this is Dick Grayson speaking. Damian won’t be coming to school today. He had a bit of a brawl with my other brother and is working through a nasty cold after insisting he didn’t want to come back indoors. You know his temper tantrums.” An emphatic pause. “Yes, of course he’ll be back tomorrow. He won’t miss the Spanish exam, sir, don’t worry.” A question. “Of course I’ll let Bruce know about the PTA meeting. Have a good day to you too!”

When the call ends Damian walks out of the entry way onto the pantry. “Identity theft first thing in the morning, I see.”

Having already sensed Damian’s presence Jason only smirked. “Thank me anytime in this life, baby bird. You want to head out for brunch? I know this vegetarian place with a drive thru.”

Damian acquiesced and follows him out of the apartment into an old mustang. The ignition took awhile to power up. “Todd, why don’t you use your savings to buy a more representative vehicle.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. Jason only shrugged. “I’d rather stockpile on grenades, you bugger. Us outsiders don’t have a lot of wiggle room in the bank.”

Damian could understand the appeal of having complete armaments but the car’s compromised interior didn’t quite manage to insulate them from the chill of Gotham’s late fall. This is part the number of reasons why he preferred the tropics. He gave up appearing unbothered when Jason dumps a worn blanket from the dashboard onto his lap after stopping for an intersection, entering the city from its outskirts.

They’re road bound and Damian is tracing patterns onto the plaid flannel when Jason breaks the quiet. “So who gave you that number on your face? Someone must’ve packed a punch.”

Came the dismissal, “Superboy and I had a minor altercation yesterday evening.”

Jason had never and would never baby Damian, not really, considering the kid could handle himself having grew up in a den of assassins. But the bruise across his jaw looked painful and given that the boy’s reaction to having a fight was avoidance and getting himself smashed instead of sharpening his knives for round two, he had reason to pry. Not to mention his explanation was awfully short, nothing like the smart mouthed brat he knew. Usually Damian would go on and on to implicate the other party when the unlikely duo squabbled and decided to throw punches at each other. Some punch it must’ve been too, metas were heavy hitters and half Kryptonians didn’t escape that rule.

“I thought Clark’s kid played nice,” Jason wondered. “What did you do to get him so pissed?”

Jason thought he saw Damian stiffen but brushed it aside as a trick of the eye. The young Wayne didn’t bother to turn to face him from the passenger seat, instead intently looking at the urban landscape beyond the windows. “The usual. It was nothing I didn’t deserve.”

Jason frowned. “You being a little shit doesn’t give him a reason to beat you up into a pulp, Damian. You’re always a little shit. That’s your default, you can’t help that.”

“Granted, the effects of the kryptonite poisoning was only wearing off and he wasn’t himself.”

Jason honked the chevy that cut his lane, only mildly irritated before resuming their talk. “I thought that stuff only makes him weak as a newborn puppy.”

“Red kryptonite enhances aggression instead of nullifies it apparently.” Damian lurched from his seat when Jason pulled the brakes unexpectedly before threatening his companion. “Todd, drive this car properly or I insist you hand over the keys.”

Jason didn’t bat an eye at that and merely took the wheel again, slowly. “Won’t happen again.” A pause. “He had red K in his system? Are you certain?”

“I have the file in my glove computer. The situation is resolved. I apprehended him with the green variety albeit after we traded attacks and destroyed a portion of his rooms. I will annotate the estimated budget for reparations to Father.”

“Hey, Damian.” He met his eye. “You know you can tell me anything right?” When Damian narrows his eyes Jason negates his suspicion. “Schoolyard fights are one thing but red K’s pretty nasty. It’s basically cobra venom to someone’s darkest desire. It distorts the truth. I mean bruises are one thing but he must have said some harsh things to you.”  

Damian is adamant on his silence. “Todd, I thought you promised there’d be no interrogation. If you were hoping I’d pour the contents of my heart to you then you’re sorely mistaken.”

Jason said, “Does this look like one? You have options, tell me, not tell me, whatever. But I know it’s often the closest to us who’s capable of hurting us most, whether they intended to or not. I’m just reminding you I’m all ears if you want to and I’m not a hypocritical asshole who’ll scrutinize every bit of history you have.”

“It’s nice to know you think of my father so highly,” Damian deadpans.

Jason gives him an unimpressed look. “You do think that too, you realize that don’t you, Damian? Why else did you come to me when you were getting murder spree urges from the pit instead of Bruce?”

Damian purses his lips. Stays silent all the way even when a hot wrapped kebab is placed into his hands. He mutters a thanks, biting into it while vowing to not speak all the way back to 1007 Mountain Drive. Jason took notice, knowing where he’d gone wrong. “Kid, look, that was uncalled for. I’m sorry. We’ve all got our issues. But you’ve got a pretty bad habit of keeping shit to yourself. You’re not like Dick or Tim. They actually respond to anything that resembles human kindness. You just shut down. That’s not good for you.”

“I appreciate the concern, Todd.” Damian said, “But it’s unwarranted. This is nothing more than your average spat and professionalism dictates it will not get in the way of team synergy. I won’t let my work in the Titans go to waste. This won’t compromise the quality of our work.”

“What about your relationship?” Asks Jason.

“What relationship?”

Damian could not have been this clueless, Jason refused. “The part where you and that kid are best buds or maybe a little more?”

“You’re hallucinating. We are strictly coworkers in the business. If I happen to enjoy his company in the civilian setting it is merely a pavlovian response to prolonged contact.”

For Damian the worst part is how Jason looks at him with eyes that are just a bit too sincere, too earnest, like all he wanted was for him to be happy. Damian has no delusion that it’s the last thing he could ever inherit in his life.

In the end Jason lets him do as he wished. “Right. I’ll let you deal with it on your terms then. Just spit on your palm and shake hands with the guy as soon as you see him again, okay?”

“We’ll do no such thing,” claims Damian, revolted. He clears his throat. “But if you were referring to mending our friendship then I’ll consider it.”

“Good enough for me.” Jason smoothly curves the hill and soon they come to a rest in front of tall gates and ivory. “This is your stop, D man.”

“Don’t call me that!” Damian chucks the blanket to Jason’s face for the man to only catch it moments before it could obscure his vision. Strangely enough Damian hasn’t let go of the car’s door despite having already exited and Jason rolls down the glass to see him catching his words, the closest he’d ever hear the boy mumble. “I believe Pennyworth would be pleased if you joined us for dinner. He has expressed so multiple times recently.”

“You know how Bruce and I get, we’re like cats and dogs,” shrugs Jason.

This does not unnerve Damian. “Everyone’s used to it, including him. Besides you don’t even throw weapons at each other. Pennyworth has been on a week long streak of mediterranean dishes. Tonight’s scallop linguini and smoked salmon.”

“Bribery at two o’clock. What am I to you, really?” Jason shook his head, turning off the ignition and climbing out of the car at the mention of his favorites.

“A prime source of entertainment,” Damian says as they enter the main foyer. “Also, there’s an oral component to tomorrow’s exam and I heard you’re decent in Spanish.”

“Decent?!” Cries Jason, aghast. “ _Mi español esta fuera de este mundo!_ ” 

“Then why did you pick being a grease monkey as a day job? Doesn’t pay very well.” Damian goaded, “ _Tal vez no eres tan bueno como crees que eres._ ” 

Jason clicks his tongue at the perfect delivery, honest to god asking why is the kid even in school when Talia had doctored him a (well deserved) PhD, before he eyes the grandfather clock. “I’ve got a death certificate that’s why, duh. Tell you what. I’ll help you prep if you let me in on the dark net. I’m getting that stupid code Tim stole from me. Lex Corp my jurisdiction my ass.”

“You are making it up to Harper, aren’t you?” Damian assesses. “Weapons heist for date night. Not bad.”

Jason pointed out. “Technically it’s your fault that I’ve got making up to do. It’s only fair if you help me out on this one. And I know for a fact that you won’t miss an opportunity to give Tim hell.”

“Good point. Follow me.” Damian relents. And before Jason could even take out his pack from his trousers, he warned, “And don’t even think about lighting that cigarette down here or the deal’s off.”

Jason wisely complied, a spring to his steps as they took the lift and descended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headcanon is that Jason and Damian have a better relationship post the latter's resurrection. Which kind of makes sense. #deadrobinsclub
> 
> Translations:  
> Mi español esta fuera de este mundo! - My Spanish is out of this world!  
> Tal vez no eres tan bueno como crees que eres. - Maybe you're not as good as you think you are.
> 
> Kudos and comments would be lovely.


	4. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another 3k on this and none on my manuscript. I am a sinner.
> 
> But thank you for your support, it means a lot and it has been my metaphysical caffeine for writing. This is for you. <3
> 
> [Listen to 'Waves' by Dean Lewis if you want to. It has been my companion for recent chapters.]

As Damian expected, when he had told Bruce of his and Jon’s little skirmish by the Titans Tower in the guise of a lightweight exchange, the man didn’t suspect a thing.

Maybe since Damian and Jon had slugged each other so often before, it was practically a record if they could keep from throwing mud and kick the other in the face for more than a week during their earlier adolescence, Bruce, in the batsuit sans the cowl, thought they were just falling back into old habits, quoting, though irresponsible, boys will be boys. What concerned him though was the red kryptonite being previously undetected until it was, having made it his priority to update the tower’s radiology equipment. And also, “You don’t have to worry about the kryptonite shipment. We disposed all within the city’s perimeter and Superman is investigating its origins.” When Damian snorted under his breath, Bruce clarified. “Out of costume. Even if you refuse to believe it he is a competent journalist.” And grins, “While our alter egos may operate above the law, we are more likely to be protected within it as civilians. It helps to play the game using both personas in their relevance.”

Damian didn’t have much to say to that except a brief agreement, before suiting up. They roamed throughout the city, from the skyscrapers of Gotham that outshone the stars to the Narrows where darkness permeated every corner. He fought each perpetrator with a renewed vigor, but held himself back from unleashing whatever pent up rage he had. He didn’t want Batman breathing down his neck like he did when they first started out, always monitoring him for signs of unmerited violence. Damian had exchanged his sword for a baton for the most part unless they were fighting the undead or androids and even then Grayson had remarked he hit hard enough to bludgeon. Tonight they made great work of the city, in sync, and Damian wistfully thought he and his father might make as good of a team as he and Grayson did.

There was something different about working with Grayson he realized as he weaved through a barrage of fists and knives and bullets from the gang fight they’re currently breaking up. He didn’t feel on edge, didn’t feel the pressure of performing. He could let go. He could afford causing several bloodied noses, broken ribs and other forms of non lethal incapacitation so long as he didn’t send anyone to the emergency ward. Sure Grayson would chastise him, but not once had he given Damian the impression that he could bench him or strip away his nightly privileges. With Father, Damian had no room for mistakes. One attack too brutal for his liking, one overlooked vantage point, one unjustifiable injury either on his part or his target could result in dismissal. And Damian needed this, he didn’t want to know if he could go insane from being forbidden to fight crime.

“Fucking fag! Would you just stay still already?! Dammit Johnson, how hard is it to put a bullet in a kid dressed like a traffic light?!”

Under the mask Damian gave an irritated eye twitch, punching his assailant hard in the solar plexus, before pulling him to the ground in a foolproof chokehold with the back of his knees and making himself airborne once more. The one called Johnson received a nasty cut by his vocal chords and Damian disarmed him, firearm and its magazine separated, rounds scattered, the glock taken apart in one swift movement.

“Good job.” Batman swung in just as the ruckus ended, having done his share of the fallen men around them, sending a tip to GCPD. Just as he ended the message the shrill then muffled scream of a woman reached their ears and they bolted in the noise’s direction.

The itch for another fight had Damian two steps ahead from Bruce, launching himself down from the grapple line. Weapon in hand the man made a bulky figure clad in ripped cargo and a stained henley that’s seen better days, the woman caged between him and the side of the alleyway. He had thought it would be petty theft, a purse snatcher or something along those lines and they’d carry on. But the woman’s blouse was ripped at the front and the man’s free hand was hiking up her skirt.

Damian saw red. He had always prided himself on control, landing blows he wanted to land, but there were times he surrendered to his instincts as heir to the demon. No calculations, no inhibitions. In such a headspace he would accomplish greater heights that bordered on near inhuman feats, being the one to blind Deathstroke in one eye with no more than the thought of _I want to make him pay_ for instance, with the distant sense of _oh, I did that_ after it’s over. It was a bit like blacking out and watching yourself as an astral entity afterwards that Damian contemplated if it’s a blessing or a curse to be able to lose his bearings and exercise deadly precision with the explicit intent to kill.

Damian wouldn’t remember what he did. But by the end of it the man would have emptied his entire clip, the woman scurrying off to the mouth of the alley once she was forgotten and his attentions found the hooded silhouette coming his way. In reality Damian had catapulted himself across walls with the speed of a panther, before his boot had connected with the man’s face, the world muted around him that all he could hear was static instead of the sound of someone being beaten within an inch of his life. A savage song, audible to everyone but him. He didn’t stop, not even when the man’s gun had clattered away onto the tarmac, not even when his scalp, fisted in an iron grip had collided with the brick, not even when blood was rushing out of his nose, not even when his eyes started rolling to the back of his head.

“Robin, enough!” It was when a voice came to him did he register the present. Batman roared. _“Robin!”_

He’d been growling like a feral animal. The man straddled by him, whose skin was now a patchwork of red and purple, was seconds away from passing out from lack of oxygen as one of Damian’s hand was on his neck, with enough strength to strangulate. It wasn’t the way he’d been trained to crush someone’s windpipe, a fast, clean end that would result in dead, glassy eyes. Its purpose was to suffocate, to create extended suffering before his choice of execution. The one he had chosen was in the form of a sharpened batarang, clutched in the fingers of his other hand, poised overhead to rain down and slit his throat.

 _Monster._ Damian thought, both of them, but him more than the dying body under him. He’d dropped the projectile as if it was on fire and had the good sense to step away before he was ordered to move. Batman kneeled, assessing the damage, before making the call. “Gordon. I need a trauma unit. 78th Drive, northeast of Sheldon Industrial, 35A6. Be quick.” He responded to the inquiry. “External wounds are negotiable but there might be internal hemorrhaging. He’s showing signs of arrythmia. Alright, keep in touch.”   

Damian didn’t dare breathe. Not even when Batman stood and gave him the imperceptible signal to go as sirens came from afar. Not even when he’s belted in the passenger seat and they’re zooming through tunneled highways. Usually, depending on how well patrol went Bruce would either discuss ongoing cases or ask about the more mundane part of his son’s life like his studies or the exhibition gallery slot he was offered or Damian would try his luck on the ride back and ask if they could switch places. He knows hell would sooner freeze over before his father ever let him drive the batmobile. But tonight, bone weary from the gravity of his actions, Damian only stared ahead into the road, not even stealing the occasional glance Bruce’s way. He wondered what his father looked like under the cowl. Angry maybe. Worse, disappointed. Both were well deserved reactions.

When they entered the cave not even Pennyworth had been called down and Damian cannot decipher his father’s expression when he had taken his head gear along with his cape, belt as well as his gauntlets. “You’re bleeding.” And sure enough Damian finally noticed the gash he sported on his side with nothing more than a dumb founded look. The bullet had grazed him through the thinner kevlar lining. “Sit down. Undress.”

Most of the time Pennyworth would stitch him, so the obvious realization that his father was going to instead finally broke through his numb shell. Climbing onto the gurney Damian took off the top part of his armor with practiced ease, pocketing his sweat matted mask. He breathes steadily through the feeling of cotton and cold antiseptic above his hip bone. Given the moderate depth of the tear Damian knew it wouldn’t scar, foolishly hoping that it might. Maybe it could serve as a reminder for his mistake. Father was gentle and thorough in applying the disinfectant, unnecessarily so when Damian’s pain tolerance allowed puncture wounds to go untreated, even as he sank the needle and threaded. He finished in good time, concentration never fleeting, his work careful and efficient and finally looked at Damian.

And it’s hard not to feel vulnerable under the scrutiny of eyes this blue. The guilt, of abandoning everything his father ever taught him, essentially rejecting the immeasurable influence he’s made in his life, more than anything, more than fear or shame, propelled him to speak. “I’m sorry.”

“For which part?” Bruce asked, the question leveled with too many meanings.

 _That I didn’t get to kill him._ His ten year-old self would say. Part of him wanted to stay ten. It was easier to fight the world than to save its wretched remains. “For taking it too far. He–” _Deserved it._ Damian swallowed. _No. No. Jon didn’t deserve that._ _You brought this on yourself. You hurt him first._ _And now as long as it suits you you’re just looking for any poor bastard you could get your hands on._ “He made me angry.” The words were hard to come by but he did anyway. “But I shouldn’t have done that.” But he had.

Because Damian saw that woman about to be stripped, opened and fucked, and selfishly thought of himself. Thought that he could redeem what went wrong with him, for letting himself be taken when he could have liberated himself. It had served no purpose, however, not truly. This was all Damian did, fighting battles that didn’t matter. What had he done other than making Father see he didn’t deserve to go out in the field, that he didn’t deserve being Robin? Nothing. Stupid. Stupid.

The computers lit up then, indicating an incoming call. Batman allowed the audio to patch through. Expectedly it was Gordon. “We nearly couldn’t ID the guy with the shape you put him in but his record is at the top of our arrest warrants so that helped. Vincent Kingsley, 36, Gotham born and raised. A predator through and through, he’s been in and out of prison for the last decade. His condition’s stabilized. One hell of a way to do it though. He’s got more tubes in him than I’ve got gray in my hair. Apart from the bruising he’s got a collapsed lung, a dislocated jaw, a skull fracture and there’s compression between his cervical vertebrae. He’ll make it, but I don’t think he’s getting out of that hospital bed anytime soon.” _If ever_ , the words go unspoken yet were heard all the same. The lingering pause is awkward. “Uh, the woman, Carla, testified by the way. Said it was the kid. Is she serious?” Gordon wisely substituted the ensuing silence as an answer, used to the somewhat one-way conversation. “I see. Well Batman, I strongly ask you to prevent any repetition of this. It doesn’t look good. We just disassembled the vigilante task force, no need to get it back up again. You do good work, it’s something this city can’t deny, but this was out of line. Just a reminder, if you don’t want unwanted measures to be taken against your efforts then don’t give us any reason to, alright? And get Robin to tone it down.” He cleared his throat. “But boy, if you’re listening to this, Carla says thanks. Alright then Batman, I’ll notify you if there’s any changes with Kingsley. Good night.”

Bruce answered, “Good night, Commissioner. Thank you.”

The line disconnected and Damian was near desperate enough to apologize again. But he didn’t know what to apologize for further than what he already has laid out. And he knew if he opened his mouth Father might expect his next outburst to be one of defiance, so he kept to himself. _Silence could not be used against you. Silence could save you._

Father appeared defeated, like he didn’t know what to do with him before his gaze turned pensive. He seemed more tired than the end of last weekend’s near three a.m. wrap up from the Blackgate breakout, and Damian is hit with the realization of _I did this._

Damian awaited his decree. Bruce looked at him square in the eye, his disapproval showing. “You heard what Commissioner Gordon said. And I share his opinion.” He lowered to himself to Damian’s station, claiming a spot next to him, leaning against the metal frame of the stretcher, sighing. “But I do understand, Damian. I understand.”

 _You don’t. You don’t._ Damian almost bit his own tongue to keep from arguing. Still he had been grateful that Father hadn’t berated him further for only showing the amount of remorse he had. Inherent patience had never been Damian’s strong suit so he couldn’t help but ask, “Are you going to.. Are you going–” He couldn’t say it, because verbalizing it meant giving it concrete reason.

“You’re incredibly lucky that man’s alive.” Bruce is not going to validate his actions, no, but he could see the difference between the boy in front of him and the child all those years ago. There was a stint, an adjustment period of some sorts where the boy wore his colors but could never stay true to the values demanded. Bruce remembers impenitent, insubordinate even downright scathing remarks that made him pray to a god he didn’t even believe in for restraint. Now his son, though not enthused in expressing how repentant he was, didn’t at all show anything apart from signs of submission. How cowed Damian was by everything almost made Bruce reconsider if he should just let this one go, not at all punish him, but he knew it wouldn’t be the right thing. Actions had consequences. As much as he didn’t enjoy child rearing, it was a task he had to fulfill when things mattered. And this definitely mattered. He never wanted Damian to have blood on his hands. “I am not benching you, not completely. I know this gives you purpose and I don’t want to take that away from you. So you are still sanctioned to go on missions with the Titans should any arise and the League should the situation require all hands on deck. You are free to train down here and to assist monitor duty should you be interested. But I’m taking you off from patrol at least until this is no longer a problem with the GCPD and the public. No doubt the press will get wind of this by tomorrow and damage control isn’t done in a day. I trust this is an isolated incident.”

Damian nods, a slow barely visible movement. “That is reasonable. And it won’t happen again, Father.”

While they’ve made great strides to get to this point, such that Bruce is still getting used to Damian obeying him and not complaining, he can’t help but to feel that they still weren’t truly communicating with one another. “Damian, I’m not mad at you. While I wish you could have handled things differently, I know it gets difficult sometimes with how toxic these streets could be. Our conviction pushes us to act. But you need to know you’ve done more than enough once you’ve intervened and put an end in the crime being committed against the victim. That is enough. That is justice.”

But it’s not enough. And before Damian could prevent himself, it had escaped him, no longer knowing on whose behalf he was speaking for. “But I didn’t stop the crime. It’s already happened.”

“Then it happened,” says Bruce, the admission heavy. He isn’t a stranger to being too late. He remembered Jason with Joker and the boy before him with Leviathan. Both came back to him against the laws of science and time. Miracle sons. That’s what they are. That’s what all of his children are. “We can only do so much.”

“What happens to the victim then? If they weren’t saved. What is justice now?” Damian almost dreaded the answer.

“We protect them.” Bruce elaborates, “From anything or anyone that might cause them further harm. Get them the help they need. Help them move forward. There’s no longer a point in confronting the criminal after they’re prosecuted. What matters now is making sure the victim has a future ahead of them, that they could put this behind them and live life to their fullest. That one day we don’t even have to call them victims anymore. They’re just people.”

A future. Was that ever in store for Damian? If may have been at some point, but definitely no longer now. Damian is not a victim and Jon is not a criminal. Damian had toyed with his feelings and Jon like anyone on the planet, like Damian, lashed out. He hadn’t even been in his right mind, and if he was he would have never even said let alone done anything to make his distress known. Because Jon is one of the least selfish people Damian’s ever met while he’s at the opposite end of that spectrum. For Damian there is no justice. He didn’t deserve it.

“I understand, Father.” Damian owed it to him to at least repeat it once more. “I am sorry for tonight.”

“I know you are.” Bruce gives him a smile, it was faint but it was real and warm in the cold cavern air, the hand squeezing his shoulder even more so. “Get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the worst, unhealthiest relationship with my own father so writing GoodFather!Bruce is a bittersweet wish fulfillment fantasy. Him being oblivious (which is none of his fault) aside, he's one of the more dominant recurring characters here for good reason. 
> 
> As always kudos and comments are more than welcome. I'd love to know what you think.


	5. 5

“Okay, seriously. You’ve been at it for over an hour. What did that punching bag ever do to you?”

Dick knew Damian hated being sneaked up on, but he couldn’t help it, not when upon entering the basement about an hour ago to send Bruce some files for the STAR Labs conference he was attending in New Mexico and finding the boy in the same position once more, only clad in a shirt that’s stained even darker through his soaked back. Dick had went back upstairs to change into gym clothes and stopped by the kitchen to fix them both a protein shake, having intended to join him.

Damian gave him nothing more than the slightest side eye, clamming down on his mouthguard again, uninterested in being bothered before he finished his set. The last three hits had swung the heavy sand bag with enough force for it to jostle like a pendulum, before the high kick he’d given it made the chains rattle dangerously.

By this time Dick had gone progressively closer and eventually made his way over to balance the object, standing as a boulder that Damian wouldn’t resume using it as a target again. The young boy spat out the guard before taking off the boxing gloves and hanging it up by the hook at the top of the suspended weight. He gulps the drink offered to him in one go before asking, “You needed a sparring partner?”

“Yes, I do!” Dick answers immediately, knowing Damian would not appreciate being interrupted for any other reason. The boy had grunted some assent before walking over to the armory. “Hey, I know you’re grounded and Bruce said you could train, but don’t you want to do something else? Finals are over so why don’t we have some fun? There’s a movie about this guy who goes up against an entire mafia empire to avenge his dog, I think it might be your type.”

Damian had blinked, realizing his pseudo brother wasn’t kidding about the offer before responding, wiping the sweat off his brow. “That is hardly an amusing motive, Grayson. And why waste millions to budget such a simplified plot?”  

Dick shrugged knowing there was a ninety-eight percent chance he was going to be turned down. Instead Dick enjoyed the fact that he got to spend time with the younger boy regardless even if it had to be through his preferred avenue. He knew Damian didn’t like messing around, if a night out to the movies could be considered such, and took himself far too seriously as if he was forty instead of several years shy of twenty. It was getting a bit much though.

When Damian’s hand brush over a set of sharpened daos Dick politely requested, “Please don’t pick anything pointy. I’m wearing my favorite shirt right now and I don’t want it slashed up.”

Upon curiosity Damian turned a bit to see and snorted when he realized Dick was wearing a navy tee that had the phrase ‘Fuck the police’ in capitals. “That is obscene. Not to mention an insult to your occupation. It’s something the likes of Todd would wear.”

“Funny you should say that because as a matter of fact Jay gave this to me for christmas,” Grayson chirped happily. “Can’t really wear it in crowds but I’ll settle with using it for workouts.”

Damian knew one of these days he had to compromise and let Grayson pick their activity. Despite Grayson’s apparent enthusiasm, Damian’s aware he was what the millennials called a spoilsport. He’ll go out. He’ll walk Titus to the park tomorrow, he swears. But today Damian will only have to make do with respecting the lesser of Grayson’s wishes, promptly picking up a pair of shinais, tossing one his way. “First to five kills win.”

Grayson’s choked laughter is merited Damian supposed. “Must you put it so dramatically, Dami? We’re literally just going to try breaking a sweat.”

“Try?” Damian’s memory begged to differ. “I’ll make you. Last time I checked you overslept after you came home from one of these sessions.”

“Don’t remind me.” Grayson winced at the memory of Lieutenant Adams’ spit in his ear for being tardy before he grinned. “But who won though? I did.”

“Bask in your premature victory, Grayson. It will be over soon.” Damian entered his opening stance, marking them at the perfect distance to start.

Grayson predictably struck first. Damian dodged, managing to clip the older man by the shoulder but not much else. Grayson wasn’t jacked the way Todd was but he was built to the point where muscles did ripple through tighter fabrics and he weighed enough to pummel hard, yet he moved as if he weighed nothing more than a feather, leaping with the grace of a jungle cat. Damian swiped the wooden sword as Grayson flipped over him, catching the man with a roundhouse kick aimed at his midsection. Only a little winded Grayson recovered quickly before sharply thrusting his weapon his way. Damian parried, taking a step backwards and the movements repeated themselves, jabbing and defending with intensity. They were both at a stalemate, having caught the other off guard multiple times each.

Grayson ever the performer, took them to higher ground, somersaulting onto the railings and up the the mezzanine. Damian indulged him, vaulting himself up the handles of the metal stairway in a less acrobatic fashion.

Dick had thought when Damian spun the handle and swung in for a hit that eventually met the iron balustrade, the blade would have splintered apart, but of course knowing his youngest Bruce wouldn’t ever purchase practice weapons which would wear and tear easily.

When Grayson had impishly smiled with that crinkle by his eyes Damian knew he had inched just a little too close for it to be safe and he was proven correct as Grayson picked up something from Father’s book, hitting the pressure points by his inner wrist, elbow then shoulder in one quick succession. The result had rendered his entire arm paralyzed, the feeling would only return to him a good minute later due to his unnaturally developed immunity to such techniques, but he had dropped his weapon all the same. Sixty seconds is a long time to fight with one arm, but Damian managed, vaulting across the glass casing of their costumes to elude his former Batman. By then his muscles had cooperated again and he was able to take up arms once more.

He ended up on the ground anyway and Grayson took the opportunity to knee him, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to stumble back into the columns, his fifth and winning point having lightly struck him on the backside. Before he knew it Damian was on the floor on his stomach, the dull blade tossed out of reach. He’s about to acknowledge defeat, except Grayson being the playful sort had decided to pin his arms overhead.

And everything melted away for him. Instead all Damian could think of was that the last time he was trapped in this position, he’d ended up losing his virginity. _I want you to remember this, Damian._ An unnatural rush of blood went to his ears, a cacophony of red and blue, and it’s different from the feeling of loud choppy winds when he’s soaring through the skies with a cape fluttering behind him. It’s like falling, falling with no end. It’s being thrown against the wall, then to crash on the ground and held down to the point of bruising and hurting with no chance of escape. His body was failing him and there wasn’t enough air in his lungs to breathe. _Move, move!_

Dick thought the steeled expression Damian sported would give way to either repugnance or the more likely outcome of retaliation. In the past Damian had an overwhelming vendetta of being bested by an opponent and would fight dirty even if they’d technically declared a winner. But when all Damian did was lie there and stare up at him, no, Dick realized, stare through him as if something else apart from this moment existed, he realized he had to break the ice. Perhaps Dick should forgo boasting. Damian just needed to be told gently that it was such a close call instead of letting him internally fume over being beaten after having gone head to head until the end. However just as he was about to do so, Dick had found himself flung away with incredible force, with almost no seconds apart as he was clocked in the mouth and shoved headfirst onto the suit display, cheekbone rattling and eyes seeing stars that he held himself upright by his elbows. Damian fought without stopping, fought like he was fighting for his life.

Dick was about to call a time out, knee, thigh and the edge of his clavicle already immobilized with deft fingers, only Damian had the deranged air of someone who can no longer be reasoned with that he could only rely on his own reflexes for whatever’s next. Had the punch met his face, Dick was sure he would have been one, knocked out, and two, gotten a concussion that would probably clear him out of field work for the next few days. But it didn’t, partly due to the voices of two newcomers and partly because he had the good sense to shift a hair’s breadth when the fist came plunging through.

“Master Damian!” Which was simultaneously overlapped with, “Damian, enough!”

Hand through mid wrist had broken through the reinforced glass, shattering the whole section and finally, the combination of tiny shards embedded into his knuckles and the harried cries which contained his name penetrated through the fog. Although truly it was Grayson’s appearance, the split lip, dizzy, disheveled and out of breath, that sobered him entirely.

Drake aided Grayson to stand since he’s yet to regain the use of his left leg, seething. “What the hell is wrong with you?! Why do you have to take a simple training exercise and turn it into a ‘to the death’ gladiator match?! This isn’t the League of Shadows! I don’t know how you did things back there but here you don’t kick someone when they’re already down! Dick could’ve gotten seriously hurt!”

“Tim!” Grayson protested. “That could hardly happen, I can take care of myself. Look, I can even walk again now!”

“Against crooks, sure, but not against little assassins you like to cuddle,” Drake said distastefully. “Damian, I don’t care if you’re an arrogant, bloodthirsty brat, but I know deep down you respect Dick so you better apologize to him.”

Even if his words rang true Damian was not going to do anything just because Drake commanded him to. But Pennyworth who’s remained silent and placated this entire time roused his conscience. Father was going to hear of this incident anyway, ground him on stricter terms and while Damian was too tired to crave freedom, he would also rather be on his good graces. He was getting good at apologizing anyway.

“I apologize, Grayson. I was callous and dishonorable in attacking you.”

Drake narrowed his eyes, gauging the insincerity of his statement while Grayson only beamed, Damian’s transgressions effortlessly forgiven instead of finally realizing he had given the Robin moniker to an irredeemable psychopath. “No harm done, Dami. Besides you could’ve given Jay a run for his money with that left hook of yours.”

Pennyworth finally spoke, albeit after shaking his head at Grayson’s exuberance despite the situation. “Master Dick, I suggest letting Master Timothy lead you upstairs for an ice pack and some painkillers. Now Master Damian, can I have a closer look at that hand should it require stitches?”

Damian doesn’t want to be looked after. He isn’t hurt. In fact his hand and most of his body feels numb, sweat having cooled off his pores. It was mildly unsanitary. Besides he has an alibi. An engagement that most of the household felt fit to have encouraged him in participating in the past since it would torture him with its utter mundanity.

“None required, Pennyworth. I am capable of making impartial assessments and I have a mixer to attend which I am now apparently running late for. I only need a shower and a change of clothes before I go.”

The Gotham Academy annual mixer was a send off before the end of year winter break. It wasn’t formally sanctioned by the faculty, the more affluent students playing a keen hand in organizing the event. It meant some faceless behemoth would rent out a middle grade, less conspicuous hotel where they could get away with mostly anything, be it underage drinking, drugs or sex. Not that anyone but Damian needed to know that. He hasn’t favored doing any of these uncouth things in public, but perhaps, a change of company was in good order. Strangers meant invulnerability.

Damian’s glad that Drake had ushered Grayson off to the elevators, because only Pennyworth was left to deal with. And bless the man, he always expected the best of him. “Alright then, I am glad you decided to celebrate the term’s closing alongside your classmates after all. May I suggest taking the Bentley?”

Damian makes his way to the basement’s installed showers, spartan but useful, strips and locks the cubicle behind him. “I prefer the Ducati and I’ll probably stay over with a friend so, I believe the colloquial term is don’t wait up.”

“Indeed it is.” Pennyworth who had finished sweeping off the broken glass onto the dust pan by then announced his departure. “Have a good night then, sir.”

 

* * *

 

Sleep, real sleep of the natural kind, hasn’t come to him since he came back from the Titans Tower. He has decent luck in passing out after copious amounts of alcohol but nothing could replicate the dreamless, uninterrupted slumber. On and off again he has contemplated stealing from Father’s wine cellar but he didn’t want to risk being caught should there be hidden cameras somewhere down there and the same went for purchasing anything online since any digital transaction could be traced if they were not monitored already.

The hotel is no Grand Hyatt, Peninsula or Carlton but it isn’t some flea invested wasteland. Damian’s Gotham Knights sweatshirt is all the invite he needed to bypass the entrance, but a boy, Scott Ridley he recalls the name, who from time to time has eyed him with fascination during cultural studies, drags him into the party. “Wayne, man, am I glad you decided to show up! You won’t regret it! We’re gonna show you a good time!”

The main hall is badly lit and smoky from the lack of ventilation as well as the significant body heat emanated from the amount of people corralled in. His sensitive sense of smell could also pick up the faint scent of opium amongst other odors. The house music is loud, reverberating off the sound systems, layered with the occasional stream of strobe lights. The joint would have been claustrophobic had Damian never been contained in far less generous environments.

Ridley introduced him to a small group, knowing he was being propositioned when one of the girls kept alluding to how rare a thing it was for Ridley having brought anyone into their circle. In fact Damian had known for some time, which was ridiculous considering him being terrible at social cues. The lingering glances were not exactly uncomfortable but he did have a sinking suspicion when Ridley had seemed entirely too happy about being partnered with him for the Middle Eastern societies project and had been all too interested in his private background in which Damian kept himself mostly tight lipped yet not hostile about. Damian wasn’t entirely put off by his advances, because while they were sexual they were also casual as the boy didn’t treat him any differently than he would a friend.  

Six shots of unnamed liquor and three glasses of bourbon later, Damian could honestly say he was beginning to relax, a warm buzz coursing through his bloodstream. Ridley takes him for the next few songs, his back pressed to the rugby player’s chest, spinning and grinding and discarding every bit of knowledge Damian has imparted with him on the matter of proper dancing. The rapid showers of light around them are like neon paint splatters and Damian revels in the dark tunnel of kaleidoscope colors exploding and shifting like waves overhead. An ocean for a sky.

It’s nice.

Which is why Damian did not mind the mouth and tongue fiercely overtaking his own as he was carted off into an empty bedroom. Ridley is peppering kisses onto his neck and collar bone, biting through flesh as if it was a succulent treat, his hands roaming through under his shirt, feeling his pectorals before eventually pulling the layers off of him to confirm it. “Holy shit, Wayne! I didn’t know you were ripped!”

“If you’re about to put your dick in me, then I suggest calling me by my name instead of my father’s.”

“I can’t believe everyone compares you to a porcupine. You are so much fun right now, Damian.” Ridley laughs aloud, grinning. “But you know what would make this feel even better?”

“Humor me.” Damian fought the urge to pout when the hands touching him so fervently had divided their attentions. No matter, they will be back soon. Patience.

Ridley popped several pills into his mouth, pink, green and yellow judging from the dim light. Damian suddenly remembered that the boy in front of him while mostly well intentioned was also a teenager who happened to be the heir of a pharmaceutical company. “Are those performance enhancers?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Ridley answered. “It’s just a little something to make the edge even better. And why would I need those? No one gets erectile dysfunction at seventeen!”

 _I do._ Damian offhandedly remembers the one instance he’s tried jerking off to no avail and suddenly thinks enhancers or not, they weren’t half a bad idea. He was not going to live it down if he couldn’t get it up in front of a witness. “I’m kidding.”

“Boy, am I lucky? Damian Wayne develops a sense of humor overnight and agrees to fall in bed with yours truly.”

“You are.”

Damian doesn’t know where the influx of confidence came from, he just knows he wants the world inside of him to be silenced. The provocative whisper was his undoing and Ridley devours him, silent at one turn and giving him filthy sweet nothings the next. Damian swallows the pills passed to him and every kiss that follows feels like a fire brand. Should Damian be an animal tonight he would be loved for it instead of feared. Fingers unbuckle his belt, yanking off his trousers and Damian doesn’t register that it’s him who’s laughing.

It’s the same as that time Grayson had insisted they visited the summer theme park and they went on the worst, most masculine of rides, the never ending loops of a roller coaster in the sun. Except there’s no inevitable descent, just up, up and up. There is no stiffness, only languid warmth suffusing through his skin. Hot, it’s so hot now. He’s feverish and giddy, heart pounding a samba through his ribcage, his own pulse threatening to deafen him and he feels full. So full. Damian doesn’t feel himself bending to accommodate the thrusts, doesn’t feel the grip digging into his ass or the hips roughly pushing into his own, doesn’t feel himself choking with wanton, doesn’t feel anything apart from the crackling whip of energy bursting through his veins. Damian lets it in, lets it ride him, shake his bones the way an overblown fuse would spark and snap.

When he comes, it is with the weight of a white dwarf exploding on itself, collapsing into the great void and a dark heaven welcomes him.

 

* * *

 

The pain wakes him up, making him curl in on himself. He’s alone. There’s a note he won’t bother reading until the ceiling stops spinning and it probably won’t for a few hours. He groans, burrowing himself deeper into the mattress. It reeks of sweat, the musty, stale smell of sex and cheap detergent. The scar on his chest aches in a dull throb, it does that sometimes in bad mornings, a familiar phantom pain that felt more like a friend than a ghost. His head feels like it’s been kicked repeatedly and he won’t stop shaking, hands trembling like the room’s heater wasn’t in full blast. It’s hazy and his vision keeps graying out at odd intervals.

And unlike yesterday’s end, he is absolutely, completely numb.

Damian sits up after a minute, bracing himself for the tilt of the view, as if he were aboard a ship sailing the unruly seas. Leaning forward on his knees he blinks rapidly, hoping to see a clear pattern of the carpet below his bare feet instead of a strange jade abstract. When he gets there, somewhat, he registers that his clothes are strewn everywhere on the floor, grunting and pulling himself up to at least slip into his boxers which had fortunately been closest. Apparently that’s all the work he could muster. His stomach clenches horribly that he lurches into the nearby toilet, feet carrying him faster than he thought they would, knees banging on the tiles and vomits. Alcohol and Grayson’s abomination of protein rich supplement. He stays there, heaving and panting, letting his guts empty itself until he feels the burn of acid in the back of his throat. He doesn’t know if the tears were merely reflexive or something else. He careens into the wall, stumbling back, sitting and trembling without a smidgen of strength in his limbs. He feels lightheaded enough that he just might pass out again.

His phone rings and Damian lets it be. The incessant tone repeats itself several times more and finally Damian crawls over to retrieve it, sitting by the foot of the bed on the ground. It vibrates in his hand and Damian reads the caller ID, unable to eschew the guilt. It’s Jon. Jon after his own week of exams. Jon trying to make amends for something that’s been systematically wiped out of his memory the way Damian would erase his browser history.

Damian doesn’t answer it, his own near naked form another reason he simply couldn’t. He doesn’t know why he feels as though he’s betrayed Jon somehow by his actions last night, by having sex with someone that wasn’t him, but it wasn’t as if they had committed to something between them. They were unattached beyond the job. Jon wouldn’t be crushed by this should he ever find out, though Damian knew everything that happened last night would be better off kept to his own. His last name already automatically advertised any form of promiscuity, he didn’t want to exacerbate it any further.

The call ends, truly ends and Damian doesn’t know why this disappoints him. It doesn’t come again, but there is a message for him to open, a voice mail to be exact. He clicks without better judgment.

“Hey Damian. So I know we’ve both been busy, but I was hoping we could hang out soon? I wish I could see you.” Damian knows, no one could see him in this sorry state, but he still has the urge to make himself smaller, disappear somehow. If only it were that easy. But Jon’s voice is a birdsong, bright and inviting, it pulls him into orbit that he listens. “There are no words that could tell you how sorry I am, but I am sorry. Terribly sorry. Kryptonite’s no excuse. I’m okay now, by the way. Thank you for asking Raven to bring me back to medical. Oh, and I scored a B+ in physics because of you too that Dad’s taking me to see the Met’s Meteors.” Tapping, near unnoticeable foot tapping in the background. It’s one of Jon’s nervous ticks. “So they fixed my room at the tower but I saw it before and I must’ve got to you pretty bad, punched your perfect teeth in and all. Uh, sorry, jokes are definitely inappropriate.” He laughs, it’s a warm, awkward sound Damian could never hate. “But know that I am sorry and that I would have taken it back if I could, Damian. I wish I remembered what I’d done, the fact that I didn’t is a kindness I could never earn. I should know how badly I messed up. If I bullied you, said and done horrible things, then I expect what I deserve. I just want you to know that I regret it. I’ve never regret you though, Damian, and I never will. You’re my friend. My best friend. You mean the world to me. If I could help it, the last thing I’d ever do is hurt you. I’m really sorry. So, call me? But only if you want to. Get better soon, okay? Love you.”

 _Love you._ Barring Grayson’s example Damian still had trouble computing that there are people who said that the way they would hello and goodbye. It was something he could never understand and when he tried to make sense of it, he would simply interpret it as a meaningless, casual phrase due to how it is exchanged, often a thoughtless and throwaway act. Jon was one of those people apparently and come to think of it this isn’t the first time he’s said so, but Damian’s never made anything of it, simply adhering to his logic. But now it’s something he sorely needed to latch onto, scraps of a better world, a better time that’s long past him.

The hand holding his phone, marred with cuts and dried blood, is the same one that assaulted Grayson without ground, the same one which held a man’s life in his hands and almost snuffed it out, the same one that’s taken plenty of it in the dynasty he had been birthed for, raped for.

Damian’s always known it, but it is long overdue that he finally thought of it this way. Mother did call him a bastard and rightly so.

Father knew this, Father knew the moment Damian had showed up on his doorstep and instead of closing his home to him or disowning him through his many, many missteps, Father had taken him with open arms and needlessly cared for him. Despite everything Damian represented, every conscious mistake he has made, Father brought him back to life.

“Hey Damian. So I know we’ve both been busy..”

Damian repeats the voice mail, needing to hear it again. Not because he needed it to wither what remains of his heart, Jon was already forgiven to him, but because he needed it to catch himself from falling into his own madness, from wanting to drift into thin air.

“Get better soon, okay? Love you.”

_How could you love me?_

There are tears rolling down his face, a quiet and steady flow, and this time Damian doesn’t lie to himself, doesn’t try convince himself that it’s biology. He’s crying because his very own existence is tearing him apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Dick did make a John Wick reference. Let's pretend that movie is a current release. Overall this chapter is quite a tough one to write because there's a lot of honesty in this. I'm not in a position to divulge but let's just say I've had my fair share of bad decisions in my life. 
> 
> I listened to exactly three songs for the three respective acts of this chapter, in case you wanted a re-read with my playlist for this fic (which I'll eventually publish on 8tracks, because I am a nerd at heart);  
> 1\. Fortress - Illenium ft. Joni Fatora  
> 2\. Feel Something - Jaymes Young  
> 3\. Cinnamon - Jome
> 
> Kudos and comments are very much welcomed. As always thank you for reading. <3


	6. 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally acquired a full time job #adulting #idk #help, hence the late update. My apologies. This chapter is a bit lighter to make up for a couple of the next ones. Enjoy, lovelies. <3

Damian is normally smarter than this. On another day he wouldn’t have ended up in a supermarket buying mint flavored chewing gum, the strongest toothpaste there is alongside a complementary tooth brush, the largest bottle of ginger ale he could find, and three strips of advil. There was actually nothing wrong with that, except for the fact that he didn’t put much thought in which supermarket and had let himself in the one that was in Todd’s neighborhood. And surprise, surprise, Todd was also doing his groceries, making an awfully domestic scene as he rattled off his list, putting the scavenged items he mentioned into the trolley Harper was pushing behind him, occasionally considering the redhead’s suggestions in a different choice of product. 

“Roy, seriously. I know my discounts, okay? And this brand is magic on bloodstains, I swear.”

Note, occasionally. Note, Damian will have to recommend said brand to Pennyworth.

“Jason,” Roy called, having spotted Damian, and the dark haired man followed his line of sight.

Jason looks at him, looks at his shopping basket and puts two and two together. Damian may have showered yes, the experience befuddling in the wake of his agonizingly slow morning since who knew lathering the expanse his body with soap and rinsing took so much balance and effort, but his clothes were another story, still reeking of booze and hopefully not much else. Damian finds his hood jerked back and pulled down as Jason gets himself a close-up, abandoning the concept of personal space. “Okay, squirt. The hell were you up to last night?”

“You do realize I’m only three inches shorter than you, don’t you, Todd?”

“Baiting,” Roy sing songs before Jason could correct him that it’s still double that amount today, thank you very much.

Damian couldn’t stall Todd when Harper was around apparently to make them a matching set of grenade nuts. Jason eyed him harshly. “Well?”

For once Damian felt the low thrum of anger. He didn’t have to explain himself to anyone, didn’t owe anyone anything. Not even Todd as considerate as he could be. “The Gotham Academy mixer, though you wouldn’t understand seeing as you failed the entrance exams when Father had foolishly wished to enroll you.”

“Baiting again,” Roy reminded an irritated Jason who calmed himself, easing into a shit eating grin after understanding his failed tactic.

“Not working, kid.” Jason didn’t waggle a finger in front of him, but he might as well have. “Now, answer me. I thought you didn’t, what was that phrase you like to use, huh? Oh. Fornicate with plebeians.”

He does not sound that uppity, does he? Feeling Jason’s eyes on him Damian knew full well he should have worn a turtle neck underneath instead of a regular shirt, the velvet marks blooming on his skin easily visible to the trained eye and the sharpshooter and the archer in front of him were the unspoken human equivalent of hawks, twin blue pairs raking him with banked suspicion.

“Things change. And it was a decent way to pass time.”

Jason noticed Damian didn’t have one bit of his gear on him, and given the boy’s tendencies to be a pack rat when it came to their equipment, it’s safe to assume he had been benched and was without proper access to their cavalry. Of course Jason wouldn’t put it past him to not have snuck a couple of their smaller toys with him. But considering he had spent a night out in town as a Wayne of all things meant he was relatively unarmed.

“So what did you do to piss Bruce off? You haven’t been benched for ages.”

 _I nearly killed a rapist._ “The usual. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Suit yourself.” Jason says, “But you know Bruce and I go way back when it comes to disagreeing on etiquette in rough housing criminals. Temper issues aside, kid, I know you don’t do things without reason. So if you give them hell, then it’s because they probably asked for it. There’s no use in feeling guilty over Bruce’s moral high ground. Don’t tell Alfred I’m enabling you though.”

“As if Pennyworth doesn’t know already,” Damian grumbled. “And Todd, Father is sound of mind to forge his own path. If I aspire to be worthy of his name then I ought to follow his example.”

Harper remarks in amazement. “Brat isn’t a complete brat after all.”

“Gimme that.” Jason seized the basket from Damian, surprised that the grip went loose without much struggle, and promptly dumped its contents onto his trolley. As they were processed through the check-out, Jason added, “You headed anywhere?”

Damian shook his head, offhandedly reminding himself to transfer a good five hundred dollars to Todd’s account online later for this and the other night.

“Good. Wanna come over? No drug busts tonight but apparently there’s three hours worth of UFC on cable.”

Damian didn’t have anything better to do and gave a non-committal shrug. “So long as I do not have to witness your sexual exploits, Todd.”

Roy guffaws in mock harassment while Jason hands him his bag of goods. “And here I thought you were raised a gentleman, Damian.”

The redhead claims the passenger seat to Damian’s ire, sticking out his tongue. “Mind if we stop at Germaine’s? I kind of need a coffee.”

Jason snickers when all Damian did was glare, before heading towards the diner’s direction and responding, “Lies, Roy. If you consider a triple mocha with caramel and four sugars coffee, then you need to get your taste buds checked.”

Roy grins, salacious. “My taste buds are just fine. Maybe I should remind you in case you’ve forgotten the evidence last night.”

Damian does not need a mental image of Harper giving Todd satisfaction, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is pornography.”

Knowing his little brother might come to regret having agreed to their excursion, Jason provided incentive. “We are making three tubs of popcorn, extra butter.”

“Fine.”

Their destination was close by for not ten minutes later Harper and Todd took one side of the booth while Damian took the other for his own. Germaine’s was a small vintage diner with a classic 80’s layout, all harlequin tiles, cushioned seats, complete with a jukebox Grayson would undoubtedly, unabashedly play obnoxious tunes on if he were present. In fact the only thing missing were buxom waitresses in skimpy uniforms running around on roller derby skates. Only conformity is apparently frowned upon in the twenty-first century that their waitress had been an androgynous woman with more tattoos than Harper, dressed in threads which made her look the part of the punk clique in those movies Grayson insisted they watched which typically starred three mean harlots and an unsuspecting transfer student.

The woman, Lyla, it seems that she didn’t discard the regulation of name tags, tapped on her note pad. “What can I get you boys?”

The current hour saw to the peak of the establishment’s business that Damian could easily smell the wafting scent of pancakes, waffles, ham and turkey from other tables. On a good day, this would be fragrant and appetizing. But today Damian was focusing more breathing in as little as possible, for his stomach was still upset and frankly disgusted with anything that wasn’t bland in flavor. The noise wasn’t exactly helpful either for the migraine that’s been brewing since he woke up. But Damian concurred that he’d be able to keep himself in check for the next half hour or so, more than enough time to finish their drinks. At least they weren’t ordering food, thank god for small mercies. The thought made him a bit less uneasy.

With Harper and Todd having listed their choice of caffeine, Todd’s ironically having been the same as Father’s for someone who profusely claims to be the polar opposite of the man, Lyla turned to Damian. Apparently she was keen enough to take note of his discomfort, pegging it as the typical pompous air of a privileged kid whose inclination lies within restaurants of higher caliber. “And what can I get that would not offend his highness’ delicate sensibilities?”

It was at this moment, with Harper snickering in the background, that Damian considered emesis, particularly directed onto her torn jeans or at the very least, reasserting his own dignity through sharp barbs which would either turn the woman into a docile creature or make her mad as hell. Only Todd, who was eyeing him with acute awareness, the same as he had when he caught him buying hangover remedies, stopped Damian from anything unwise. “Tea. Jasmine. Fresh lemon on the side.”

Lyla and Stephanie could be a match made in Tartarus, Damian absentmindedly thought when he had been at the end of an exaggerated fake curtsy which had both of his companions in the thick of laughter. Todd no longer stood guard it seems that Damian let it slide without much objection.

Their orders came and Damian realized he had miscalculated, having overestimated his own natural mastery over his body. Todd’s black espresso is a strong, overwhelmingly bitter concoction, evident even through its vapor.

The lavatory was out of reach for Damian who could only hunch over to the side and promptly spew bile and water. So much for his vow of not vomiting in public.

Pushing Todd out of the booth, Harper exclaimed, “Shit, kid!”

Apparently they had made a scene. Correction, Damian made a scene. For presently Todd was conjuring his own version of Father’s persona, the one he used at public gatherings to win the masses’ favor.

“Fucking hell, there’s a bathroom not ten feet away! What am I even getting paid for?!”

He’s wearing down Lyla’s outburst of anger with a charming, self deprecating air. “I am so sorry for this, let me make it up to you.” And promptly slides a hundred and some change. Lyla’s fury dimmed into a manageable anger. Apparently the way to a part timer’s heart is through handsome tipping.

She huffed and side stepped Jason, who gave her a wide berth, wetting a dish rag with tap water from the counter. The glare she gave them was unmistakably their cue to scram. Jason easily provided the waitress her privacy of mopping off a puddle of predigested matter off the floor, following where his boyfriend had led off his little brother.

He sees Roy about to cart Damian off into the car, but halfway towards their ride, as if regaining his faculties the previously amicable boy wonder skyrockets out of the redhead’s arms as if they burned to touch, his protests heated, eyes simmering. “Off with you, Harper! You do not have permission to treat me like some invalid!”

Roy thought Damian had got to be kidding. The boy could barely stand on his feet, only empowered by an endless reserve of bravado it seems. “Are you for real, kid? You smell like sick and that time I got a face full of cocaine thrown at me. Newsflash, you look like shit! Hell we just got kicked out because you chucked your guts.”

Damian sneered, the emotion a far better remedy to ground him steady, done with civility. “You’re one to talk. Eight months ago, you weren’t even an upstanding citizen. You think a good shave and a new cathartic tattoo to cover the track marks will change the fact that no one thinks you’re a good investment on Todd’s part? Think again. How long will this reformed version of you stay for anyway? Unless you’re playing the long con in dragging him through the mud, I suggest you mind your own fucking business and spare him before you let your libido decide for you. Stop wasting everyone’s time and use that fledgling conscience of yours!”

“Damian, knock it off!” Jason thanked whatever invisible deity reigned that the teen was in poor shape or else he knew he would have punched him in the nose, instead grabbing his elbow hard enough to bruise because _that_ was out of line. “Apologize!”

Damian had always knew and respected the fact that Jason was protective of those he cared about, vocal about it too, and the archer was no different, if anything he didn’t look angry or insulted, only eyeing him in a warning not to run his mouth to his significant other because he could stand being at the end of his foul words but he will not should it be on his partner’s behalf. They were acting like a pair of love birds in their own way.

He realized he had crossed an unspoken boundary. Harper’s dignity as Todd’s suitor of some sort was not his to belittle, not even Father’s. It was Todd’s and only Todd’s because he was a man in his own right and he made his own choices. Damian had been wrong to voice such things aloud, no matter how true they were to his eyes in moments like these.

“Sorry,” he muttered. Jason gave him a stink eye. Damian caved. This time the apology is clear, if not flatly iterated. “I’m sorry, Harper. It was an ill comment, which offense I wish you shan't take.”

“None at all, if that’s what you want,” Roy pronounced, letting it go and Jason swears he could kiss him if there weren’t a third (objecting) party present, because he was being really cool about this, when less than a minute ago Jason was in the mental throes of rolling up his sleeves to sock the boy in his own temper. “Just take it easy, okay? You look like you had a rough night and we just wanna help. If you don’t mind of course. Forget all this. Start fresh, what do you say?”

No, not kiss. Jason could go into R-rated territory in the ways he’d like to thank Roy, but he’ll put that aside for the time being, watching Damian recoil as if swallowing a mouthful of beetroot, because that’s right, human decency is the weapon that chases off every last drop of his indignation and turns it into well, insecurity, which was sad if Jason’s being honest. Leaning on the roof of the driver’s seat, he shrugged, “What he said.”

“Turn on the radio,” was all Damian instructed, quiet and low, not even slamming the door behind him. By this point Jason knew it was code for what he deemed a suitable substitute to idle chat, something they all could gladly spare themselves from. They abide to the simple rule, Roy near mutely humming to the low volume of slow classic rock and Jason could swear the sigh he made could have been subtler. But it isn’t. Being chauffeur isn’t all bad, it’s fun especially when the company’s right, but when the atmosphere is so thick, he kind of hates the enforced stillness. That problem is mostly solved however when Damian falls asleep in the back. And not the kind where Jason has the urge to be paranoid if he’s faking it because the way they knew is tantamount admission. The boy’s head had lolled off to the side, knocking dead into the window pane, but apparently he’s exhausted enough that even the sound of the hefty bump in relative silence isn’t enough to rouse him.

“Ouch.” Roy grins, having witnessed the event through the front mirror.

“God, I’m sorry about him.” That grin, perfect, wonderful, the kind of view he’ll never trade for anything, be it given over a pan of eggs and bacon or in the dimmed lights between sheets, was all it took for the fray of nerves in Jason’s tongue to collapse. “If I’d known he had a stick shoved up his ass this morning, I wouldn’t have suggested he tagged along. It’s weird, one point he’s like an adult in a child’s body and the next he’s like this.”

Roy knows what Jason feared. That this scared him off. That whatever Damian said resonated some powerful truth he couldn’t deny. While both were indeed true, it wasn’t as if Roy was going to let every seed of doubt cloud his judgment, undermine his confidence and stop him from being good, being better. Jason of all people had taught him that. If you wanted something hard enough, then you don’t let it go.

Besides what they had wasn't some codependent thing that would make either of them crumble should they not see to it and somehow separate. Roy has his head set straight. Sure he wants to be more for Jason. But he also wants to be more for himself first and foremost. Jason had forced this early on, that no matter what happens, Roy would always have him. Selfless Jason, always wanting the best for him. Always wanting him happy and healthy. Always safe, even from himself.

The kiss would probably be illegal considering Jason hadn’t even pulled over and they’re going at a good thirty miles per hour, but he couldn’t help but wipe away that frown on his face the best way he knew how. When they part and Jason turns to the road once more, giddy smile letting up and eyebrows furrowing the slightest bit Roy isn’t having all his hard work go down the drain for nothing. “Hey, I meant every word I said. Besides look at him.” Jason could indeed afford to steal a side glance at the harmless seventeen year-old as they curved another neighborhood, before listening. “He’s all bark and no bite. I mean he’s a Wayne but, I don’t know. I know most of you Robins, what kind of people you are. You look out for your family. To be honest, in his own personal brand of jerk, that’s probably the sweetest thing he’s ever done for you.”

“I can’t believe you’re not even pissed at him. You’re a saint,” Jason remarks.

“What Damian said was nothing.” Roy brushed it off. “Live with Oliver Queen for a decade and you’ll see from where my patience arise.”

“Huh, Bruce does the opposite for me.”

Roy reminded him. “Plus, you remember that time I got stuck bedridden from going cold turkey at the Tower of all places? Talk about déjà vu.”

“How could I forget?” Jason bitterly acknowledged. It was the worst, longest two weeks of his (second) life. Roy had been appointed to go on a mission with the Titans on a whim of the League’s and somehow he had relapsed entirely due to the requirements of the case, having sacrificed himself to find the abductees of a trafficking ring, his captors dosing him without consent. The Titans, mostly the old timers and Damian had got him back, though Jason had been stuck commuting to San Francisco for the better part of a month since they’d set up Roy’s treatment on base. While they had aided his recovery fairly quickly in part thanks to Bruce’s insight to conjure a counter toxin which Jason had to credit, this next part he hadn’t been aware of.

“What I didn’t tell you is that Damian played no small part in catering to yours truly. Made me chicken soup, fluffed my pillows and all. Made my stay fit for a king. Only I was half out of it that I haven’t told you for fear I was imagining the whole thing. But nah. Definitely real, no other kid but him would choose a bed time story as drawn out and pretentious as The Odyssey.”

Jason agreed. “That’s definitely Damian.”

Roy chuckles as Jason parallel parks the vehicle in their designated spot. “He’s got a well of compassion buried somewhere in that small dark heart. Seriously, the tabloids had him all wrong. Mysterious, brooding prince charming is just about as opposite as you could get. Sucks that he’s a judgmental hard ass most of the time, and he doesn’t care enough to show anything different but hey, nobody’s perfect.”

“You’re perfect.” Jason says, tearing off his seat belt before launching himself, crossing over to Roy in a frenzy, their mouths meeting. God he felt seventeen again, felt immortal.

“And you’ve got a little brother to babysit.” Roy teased, smooching the tip of his nose, and Jason won’t lie that he shivers at the feel of stubble on the skin of his lips. Little did he know, it was better than any drug to the man in front of him too. “If you get him to shower, I’ll take care of laundry.”

“Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personally I live for a happy, well adjusted, in a good place Jason. Because god knows I'm not, so why not live vicariously through your characters. :')
> 
> Kudos and comments always appreciated. <3


	7. 7

After giving Damian some spare clothes from his older, smaller stash, Jason gives him his space in the guest room without much pestering, making himself scarce by the living room. The tell tale sign of the sound of running water that starts almost immediately meant that he willingly went in the bath that Jason won’t even complain if the kid used up all his hot water. He’s just glad it was safe to talk with the undercurrent of noise. 

“The kid had these in his pockets. Wouldn’t want the guy to pull a sword on me for getting his stuff into the washing machine now, would we?” Roy, already in threadbare clothes after completing the chore, placed the items on the coffee table, then hands Jason the can of beer previously tucked under his elbow, already gulping down half of his own. A thoughtful gesture yet Jason pushed aside the offer for a drink for the time being, preferring to scrutinize the things laid out in front of them. “Stare any harder and his things might spontaneously combust.”

Jason mock laughed before he recalled the brief image of a shirtless Damian before he locked the bathroom door behind him, pulling it up to mind. “I didn’t see anything new. Or anything new that needed red flags. But the light’s pretty bad in there.”

Turning on the cable Roy reminded, “I told you to get rid of the curtains at least five times.” When Jason remains silent, Roy joins him on the sofa, a hand on his knee. “Jay, listen to me. If you’re wondering if he’s using, then the answer’s no. As stupid as that kid could be, he’s not stupid enough to take a needle to his arm. He’s not me. He’s not Catherine. He’s not an addict and he will never be.” 

Jason isn’t convinced, knowing how appearances can be deceiving. “How could you know for sure?”

“Because I’ve been there. And he’s showing the wrong symptoms.” It also helps that Roy had seen the boy’s sleeves roll up when he was wiping sweat off his brow. “He got drunk, that’s obvious since he got green over nothing. But if he’s coming down from a high, I’m betting it’s MDMA. It’s a match. The extra crankiness, the fatigue, the teeth grinding and the fact that he’s hiding a limp.”

“What does ecstasy have anything to do with an injury?” Jason double backed. “You think he’s alternatively medicating off of something he didn’t want anyone to know he got from the job?”

“No. He went to some fancy high school blowout, that’s what you sons of Bruce Wayne do, right? Alcohol and drugs encourage a certain kind of behavior.” This is awkward, Roy decided. When Jason still had not connected the dots he winced, wishing he didn’t have to explain. But he had to, judging by Jason’s expectant look. “Kid got laid.”

“No, he didn’t.” Jason only wished he could clear himself of that mental image. He knew Damian wouldn’t be a virgin. No rich Gotham kid, let alone heir at this day and age could be, realistically speaking given their lifestyles on the fast lane, but this was Damian. Damian who he knew since he was a little over four feet tall, the angriest, most entitled ten year-old in existence whose sworn purpose consisted of collecting animal friends, intimidating every person within a mile radius and giving everyone who ever had the pleasure of meeting him a hard time.

“Jay, I know the idea of a younger sibling growing up and sexually experimenting never really sits well with anyone, but you really have to get it through your head. Face it, he’s seventeen and loaded. He could probably do anything he wanted and no one would be able to stop him. You’ve gotta give him some credit, this actually fits into the more normal and socially acceptable category of his life experiences.”

Jason thinks. Even if sex was a healthy, completely normal outlet for a teenager to explore, Jason thought Damian would find it irrelevant, wasteful and counter productive, and perhaps beneath him even. Should he approach it it would be in his signature clinical manner. He wouldn’t have had careless, meaningless sex, would he? The thought was preposterous. Damian was raised a prince. He was above that. He was better than that. He deserved an actual partner to do that with, to share that part of himself with, not some one night stand he did while completely hammered. Jason thinks and still cannot escape that denial. “Roy, I’m telling you Damian is a hell lot harder to get into bed than that. Unlike Dick, he actually has standards. Standards to the roof. He’s old fashioned if not a fascist. He wouldn’t just willingly, without cause, fuck a random stranger.”

Roy coughs, choking on his beer for the better part of a minute and Jason has the right to be suspicious. “What aren’t you telling me?”

The redhead sighs, knowing he cannot leave out the information he originally intended to from mentioning, and swallows every last drop of his Guinness because he needed it. He ignored Damian’s hypothetical wrath in the unlikely event they were discovered, opening the boy’s wallet and handing Jason the slip of paper. “To be clear I didn’t mean to peek. It just happened to fall out of the slit when I hung his trousers upside down to toss out whatever he was carrying on him.”

Jason warily unfolds the crumpled note.

_Had a great time last night, Damian. Definitely wouldn’t mind a repeat of it._

_I didn’t know you like being held down but we all have our needs. You weren’t the only one dry. It’s a record for me too._

_Sorry I left early, got practice by the sports centre at 8. Room’s paid for by the way, no need to worry about that and you can check out late._

_Happy holidays!_

_P.S. Feel free to hit me up any time. Hope you don’t mind I put my number on your phone. xo_

The first thing that Jason feels is incredulity from the amount of hand drawn emoji whoever the hell wrote the short letter had included, then he discards that trivial detail and actually processes the content of the words he has read. A few seconds before the outrage hits him Roy finally said the inevitable. “He’s not the one doing the fucking.”

Jason can’t. Jason does not even possess the capacity to associate the concept of Damian willingly placing himself under someone else’s subjugation, professionally, let alone sexually. Especially when that someone was no one. Not someone he trusted. Someone he loved.

“Roy, this isn’t right.” The man addressed looks at him, with patience, with pity and Jason lets him. “This isn’t him. Kid wouldn’t be caught dead walking inside anything that resembled an opium den unless it’s for the mission. He wouldn’t take narcotics, harmless or not. He wouldn’t fuck or be fucked by some dumb shitbag who made it sound as if they’re nymphomaniacs.”

“Maybe it’s a phase and I wouldn’t worry because from the looks of it he’s already had enough of it,” Roy suggests, knowing Damian loathed his current helplessness and wished for nothing more than to return to a hundred percent. It might be hard for the kid to solemnly swear on a pledge of sobriety, but that was fine, he’ll learn soon enough where to draw the line. Jason shouldn’t be taking this so hard. “I mean I hate that he’s drinking or trying out whatever the hell his possy offers him as much as you do but this is the typical reckless, self destructive behavior any person is prone to. I remember when I was at that age, we were all equally susceptible. He’s just growing up and this, him learning his own lessons, that’s part of it. Is it so unimaginable for a perfectly healthy teenager to waltz into a rave and getting some?”

The night two weeks back when he found Damian wasted in his own company comes to mind and Jason does not want to have to admit this but Roy needed to know why all this added up to him had cause for alarm. “That’s the thing. He’s not. Healthy, that is.” Jason tips his head back sideways on the seat. “Even after all this time he doesn’t have a clue about how _this_ works.” He made a point to gesture between Roy and himself, what they had. Comfort. Intimacy. “That it’s possible for him to have anything like it. He’s like Bruce, no, worse than Bruce. At least Bruce has a hobby of monopolizing his kids and gets the mechanisms of leading a personal life, somewhat, if being bipolar counts. But him, he doesn’t have a clue about anything. He absolutely hates being touched, Dick kind of worked on that I guess, but all that development might as well be for nothing considering today. And check this, he’s got a thing going for him with Clark’s kid for years I’m pretty sure, but either he left the little S hanging to pine over him because he’s an overthinking, constipated robot or he’s truly unable to read between the lines. I don’t know which case I’m more sorry for.”

“Tell me Bruce doesn’t only teach his sons how to fight.” When Jason does not refute this claim Roy frowns. “Seriously? Distant as the guy is, you would at least think he wouldn’t skip emotional management classes with the midget from the assassin’s keep who came back from the dead.”

“Damian never even told Bruce about the shit that comes with coming back.”

“And he tells you?”

Jason shook his head. “No. Usually I have to force it out of him. Though sometimes he’s an open book. And I never thought I’d count myself lucky that I was raised, but it helps that I lived through the same thing. But it’s never the same. Not really. He was a child when he died.”

“So were you,” pointed out Roy hesitantly.

Jason explained, “I lived longer. From before. And I lived as myself. He was barely a year out of the League. Barely knew what it meant to be anything other than an al Ghul. Barely knew himself. That creates room for a lot of naivete when it comes to the real world, real people, but mostly a lot of hatred and unbelonging. It’s true we all say it’s history, but I don’t think he got over it. How could he when he’s living proof of that place?”

Roy answers, “That shouldn’t matter now. He’s with family, his real family.”

Jason uninterestedly eyes the tournament lineup on screen, already knowing none of these brutes would last a night out on the streets. “What if his family consists of a bunch of useless pricks?”

“You aren’t a useless prick.” Roy’s hand slips behind his neck, pulling him away from mindless television. “You aren’t. Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“Not until I find out for real the kid’s isn’t up to anything.”

Roy tells him, “So find out.”

“What?”

“Get answers. If not from him, then ask Dick. Or Tim. Hell ask Bruce. Though kick his ass if it turns out this is about something as stupid as Princeton.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “You kidding? Squirt already got early acceptance into his alma mater.”

“Gee, overachiever much?”

“That’s what I’ve been saying. But all I get is a Todd, unlike you, I plan to have a glorious future.”

Without shame Roy confessed, “You sounded really posh just now and I’m really turned on.”

Jason more or less picks up on the lack of activity given that the slight hum from the water pump in the background had stopped and promises, “Later. Gotta talk to him first.”

“Cockblocker.” Roy rolls his eyes but affectionately slaps his ass as he rises off the couch. “Well, hurry up.”

 

* * *

 

Jason eases himself onto the foot of the bed. “Hey.”

Damian is sitting crosslegged by the headboard, towelling his hair dry. “I thought you wanted to see buffoons wrestling.”

Jason grins. “Like you said, buffoons. Wasn’t much to see.”

Damian folded his hands on his lap. “Thank you for your hospitality, Todd. And I apologize for my earlier feud with Harper. It was in poor taste. I know you will do well in your romance.”

“He says it’s all good so I’m good too.” Jason shrugged. “Besides I’m here because I want to talk about you. What you’ve been up to. I can more or less guess where you were last night. You took something other than booze. What was it?”

If Todd was being direct and neutral about this then Damian will do the same. “I do not know for certain. But it was not physically nor psychologically addictive I assure you. And I personally do not plan to consume the substance again. It is not worth this weakness, I have the good sense in realizing that.”

“Good,” was all Jason said.

Damian trusted him enough not to be a tattle tale to Father that he sighed, having assumed, “Will that be all?”

“I’ll get out of your hair in a bit, but there’s something else I want to make sure of.” Todd’s gaze is heavy, laden with care, and Damian has to consciously remind himself not to flinch. “Losing control isn’t a bad thing. You do know that, don’t you? You need to let people in, Damian. The fact that you avoid that isn’t something you can solve by giving yourself away to strangers. It won’t make you whole. It’s just going to remind you of the void.”

Damian snorted, “That is awfully presumptuous of you. Who said I didn’t reap pleasure for myself?”

“Temporary pleasures are just that. Temporary.” Jason perched forward, elbows on his knees. “I know you’re smarter than this.”

That’s what Damian has been telling himself. He’s smarter, he’s stronger. But maybe he isn’t. He never was. “You’re wrong.”

“Enlighten me then, Damian. Why are you so averse to having someone understand you?”

“Do you know how the League acquires its many, many strongholds around the globe?” The question is an odd one and in retrospect one Jason is not prepared for. “We take siege of whatever previous society resided. Whether they were quaint villages or esteemed monarchies. We raze the ground they lived on, claim it as our own. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

Jason gathers his thoughts. “I know this stuff, kid. Talia practically nurtured my budding arsonist.”

A dark irony manifested in a hint of laughter is present in Damian’s voice. “You didn’t shoot a quiver of flaming arrows to the homes of men, women and children just because it would please your mother. You didn’t tear down mountains, didn’t turn havens of ice to fire.”

“Damian,” Jason says, like it physically pains him. “That’s behind you. Just because you’ve done bad things, doesn’t mean you’re bad. You’ve changed, you’ve been changing every single day and there is a reason you have a mask and a cape. The reason is you are capable of so much good. You are capable of good because you have good in you.” Jason motions to himself. “I’ve got a rap sheet longer than the list of people who want us dead. And that was from before when I didn’t even have the means to arm myself or the motive.”

“You have nothing to be ashamed of, Todd. Not of wanting to be avenged and not of the life you led before you met Father.” Damian pointed out. “You were under duress. You did everything you have because you needed to. You had to survive. Whatever you’ve done in your past, be it the thieving, the prostitution, it’s because it’s kill or be killed in this city. You didn’t have a choice. I did. And I chose to kill. I did not act on fear, only instinct. Nothing condones any murder of mine.”

Jason disagrees. “Damian, you didn’t choose. Talia chose for you.”

“When you were in the League, you were imprisoned to bear punishment for fleeing the ranks of the All Castle before you were cleared. You were anxious to return to Father before your time.”

Jason’s never told anyone but Roy. Even then it had been in bed, when his heart is warm and his tongue is loose. He had a series of particularly visible wounds on his body that would never fade. Burns, an array of scarlet and silver, after their origins were made known to Roy only received utter wanting and worship, replacing days of torture with nights of bliss. “How did you know about this?”

“I was told to choose from a weapon’s display. I chose a branding iron.” Damian says, “They never made me into something I’m not. You want to know why I’m better off alone? I hurt everything I touch. This blood lust, that’s who I am. That’s who I’ll always be.”

“No, you do not.” Jason refused, troubled that he climbs closer. “You went from being the next Alexander to not eating meat, Damian. Only very few people on this earth are capable of such transformation. You’re one of those miracles.”

Damian knows this is madness. “Todd, you can’t possibly forgive me. No sane man should.”

“Well I do! What the hell are you gonna do about it, huh?” Jason doesn’t care if he’s being obnoxious. “If you played a part in marking my skin, then all I’ve got to show for it is gratitude. Because guess what? I love my scars. And frankly so does Roy.” It all boils down into a whisper. “You’re forgiven.”

Damian softens. “Okay.”

“That’s all you have to say?” Teased Jason. “Don’t I get a hug and a kiss?”

“Stop it, do not stoop so low to Grayson’s level.” In reality not only Damian disapproved of Todd adopting his habits, he had intended to prevent any sudden involuntary movements on his part that more or less came with contact recently. Still he lets Jason lean in to wrap him tightly in one arm against his shoulder. _You’re safe. Don’t panic. You’re safe._ He wills his subconscious to be quiet, to reach calmness, to remember where he was, who he’s with, to remember it was a touch he need not run from or resist, the touch of a loved one. For once things go according to his wishes. When his breath evens out and his voice steadies, Damian speaks, words hidden yet crystal clear. “Thank you, Todd.”

Jason tousles his hair. “That’s what family’s for, kid. Don’t forget that.”

And for a moment, everything is okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternated between I Was Wrong - Sleeperstar and White Blood - Oh Wonder for the most part in terms of music. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always welcome. Thank you for reading. <3


End file.
